


Wicked Game

by JustAGoodfella



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Arranged Marriage, Blow Jobs, Daemon is a fucking badass, Dark Daenerys Targaryen, Dominance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Face-Sitting, Foot Fetish, Incest, Light Bondage, Mother-Son Relationship, Multi, Pregnancy, Secret Affair, Shameless Smut, Threesome - F/F/M, dark Targaryens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 02:55:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20538977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAGoodfella/pseuds/JustAGoodfella
Summary: Jon Snow died in the Great War protecting his beloved wife and unborn baby.Seventeen years have passed and Queen Daenerys is alone with seven prosperous Kingdoms on her shoulders. But, she has forgotten what it felt like to be loved in her King’s arms after she lost her dear northern fool. She now lives on for their only child, Daemon Targaryen. He is the Ward of Storms End until he ready to become King. On an honourable reckless adventure in the Reach, Daemon is in dire peril.Daenerys promptly fly’s to her son’s aid and when she does, she finds Daemon has simply grown into a copy of his lord father, and Dany’s teats heavy when she can’t help the forbidden feelings that reignite in her burning womb…





	Wicked Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sleepy_moon29](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepy_moon29/gifts), [Naerya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naerya/gifts), [House_Blackfyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/House_Blackfyre/gifts).

> I decided to gift this to some of my favourite authors on the site. It won't be a long story, I imagine only a few or so chapters. I'm now working on the next chapter of PR, comment on anything you'd like to see in this fiction and we can have some fun. Major smut incoming on the next one...

Chapter 1

The skies thundered with blistering snowfall, the icy breeze battered everyone’s faces in acidic turmoil, the foggy air was filled with the swinging of blades and heavy hooves thundering, screaming in the winter battle for the Dawn. In the middle of the hurricane and deep in the ice-covered moors on the Trident, stood the Night King in his frozen flowing garbs and hollow blue eyes that sucked the warmth right out of everything he looked upon. He slowly walked towards her with his Wight Walker sentries gleaming behind him.

Dany was on the ground, heaving, warm blood and frozen grass under her delicate fingertips. She had fallen from her Dragon and she now looked up to see the Night King approaching in the distance, and her violet eyes brimmed with tears as she squeezed them shut in pain and gasped out delicate breathes, her small palm holding her swollen navel under her layers of snowy fur, desperately holding her small bump to sooth the sharp ache from her fall.

“Jon,” she breathed unknowingly with her ears ringing and when she looked up again, she saw the Night King looking down upon her with his deadly unlidded glare. Dany tried to struggle back away from him, to search for her dragonglass dagger Jon gave her but her knees felt so weak and the pain from her swollen tummy caused her to simply whimper at the Night Kings feet.

Dany had lost her beloved Rhaegal on this battlefield, his colossal emerald corpse burning in the faraway forest land in the distance. She had lost most of her soldiers and good people who had trusted her to protect them, and Drogon was injured after she fell from him when the Night King threw an ice spear through her Dragon’s wing, the impact causing her to fall on a bed of blooded snow. Now her fire-breathing child was on the ground fighting desperately off a herd of dead Giants and a mountain of dead men. And Dany had lost sight of her beloved husband…

She simply wanted to find him, to protect him, to love him, to die with him… but the pain coursing through her body made her head dizzy and her fall left her in front of the Night King himself. She could swear his blue face was almost smiling and it angered her so much, so, so much. She found and reached for her Dragonglass dagger that lay half-buried in the snow, grabbing it desperately before thrusting it upwards in a pathetic attempt but her eyes dilated when she felt sharp nails smack her hand away effortlessly before slithering towards her neck.

Dany wanted to scream when his sharp frosted fingers clasped around her neck, the rotting, cold feeling of his fingers making her whole petite body shiver violently as he dragged her up to eye-level.

“Jon,” Dany pleaded unknowingly again, withering in the Night Kings unforgiving hold, her beautiful skin getting paler and paler…

The battle almost slowed down around her, thousands of dothraki cavalry, legions of Unsullied and Northmen all fighting for their lives, all the armies of Westeros and Wilding clans, Giants and Direwolves and a mourning Dragon in the distance, all were occupied fending off the swarm of dead beings that piled into them. And all the living simply didn’t realise their Queen was at the clutches of death, no one realised their Queen was facing the Night King herself, no one… all except one man.

Jon launched himself through the clearing of circled Wight-Walkers. “Get your fucking hands off her!” He growled, sprinting towards them by cutting through the path of Wight Walkers, wielding Longclaw with precise fluid movements that shattered every Walker that tried to attain him.

Jon was dripping with fury, he wielded Longclaw with his left hand while spinning a dragon-glass axe in another. He parried a sharp of ice sweeping towards him and his Valyrian steel withstood the weight of the sharp as it angled towards his face. He saw another walker coming from behind and he swivelled his torso and flung the axe in his palm to shatter the approaching monster to pieces.

He tensed his calves and lowered his stance, grasping Longclaw with two hands now and he broke the clash of blades, he countered with a pivoted blow and swung underneath, burying the tip of his blade in the walkers gut, shattering him to the wind.

“…Jon” Dany’s breath was a mere whisper in the Night Kings hold, he held her like a supple dragon in his palm, dangling her by his side and his hollow icy eyes tormented the northman.

Jon blinked his steel-grey eyes in fear, the fire and blood in the core of his irises. He raised his sword and pointed it at the Great Other.

“Put her down! And take my life instead of hers! Let her go, and the night will be yours.” Jon pleaded, his terrified face twitching with anger every time Dany helpless figure clawed for breath. The fighting around him became a mere blur, the soldiers plunging past them and dead men sprinting like flies around them became nothing but a cascade of oblivion. His heart thumped harder for only one thing, the love of his life on the brink of death. Dany whimpered in the Night Kings choking hand, her tears impossibly warm and her heart yearning to tell Jon to flee, to take her dragon and fly east. To be happy. To be safe, for her. But, the words couldn’t reach past her throat nor could another cry. All she felt was the cold and her eyes slowly began to close.

Jon looked desperately at Night King, he knew if he stepped an inch closer he would hear the snap of his love’s throat. And she would be gone. He couldn’t… He just couldn’t. “Please…” He breathed with no light left inside him, he fell to his knees and his sword went with him, bedded into the snow.

The gleam in the Night Kings eyes told him otherwise and he almost looked humoured, the other walkers had formed a circle around them and outside the circle was the blur of white winds and tides of screaming and hooves. Jon knelt in the middle and had to watch as the Night King tightened his hold, daring him to charge forward. Dany’s eyes were closing and she barely struggled anymore as her hands slowly started to go still. “…Please” He whispered again, the strength in his breast gone and his eyes filled with warm tears.

“…I love you, Aegon Targaryen.” Daenerys murmured and her eyes stopped blinking, her hands dropped and then all of a sudden, Arya Stark launched herself into the midst with her catspaw dagger aimed at the Night Kings back.

The Night King dropped the Queen by his feet and turned towards the intruder. He caught her like an arrow meant for death, holding her up and stopping her blade sinking into his soul, her small limps struggled and he smiled at her desperate attempt. But, he didn’t hear the stumble behind him nor the decimating tip of dragon steel thrusting into his back. His azure blue eyes widened with shock.

Jon heaved, leaning on the hilt of Longclaw as he drove it into the monsters back, the walkers around them that tried to reach him shattered with the wind and the screams outside the storm withered to nothing but the sound of silence. The massacre of running corpses wasted into broken bones. But the storm didn’t stop. The Night King snarled in pain and punched Arya down, the girl falling in the snow, knocked out.

Jon was focused on Dany, kneeling by her and crying in relief when he heard her delicate breathing. He turned her over and held her up slightly, rubbing her cheek softly with his thumb, he leaned down and kissed her lips softly. “We did it, my love. You're safe… we’re…”

Dany regained consciousness and held onto to him for dear life, sobbing, her small hand grasping his fingers and pulling them down over her navel, wishing his fingers would save their miracle. Jon looked down and placed his shaking palm over her stomach, warmblood chilled between his fingers and he tried to give a reassuring smile to her in between his sobs. He met her gaze, “…it’ll be alright, my love, it’ll be alright…you just need some water, and, and…”

Dany tried to nod aswel between her tears, clutching his hard fingers and she barely heard his shouts for a maester. Her ears caked with blood and muck from the battle. But, her eyes, on the other hand, flickered to the sight moving over Jon’s shoulder. She tried to warm him but she had already lost so much blood, she pushed his lovely jaw to turn and warn him. But, it was too late.

The Night King was no longer a mythical monster of ice and hatred, the frost and garbs had melted away from the first blow. The naked man that was left in the puddle of black water and ice was still young but his grey steel eyes were black and old, dark rings of the power that possessed him lingering on his face. The lost soldier of the First Men stood up on shaky legs and silently slithered the blade out his gut, black blood spilling go the snow but he barely flinched since his body riddled with oblivion. He turned and saw the northman that attacked him, facing away from him cradling a woman in his arms. He looked at the traitor he thought had helped the children of the forest tie him to that Weirwood. And he charged with whatever energy he had left in his legs and plunged the sword into his back, there was a scream from the woman underneath the northman and then a thunderous tremor from a colossal fire-breathing dragon that just landed behind them.

Dany looked up helplessly as Jon choked out blood from his mouth.

He down looked at her with only love in his eyes, a look of sorrow that he was leaving her but a small smile to tell her he loved her, more than anything. She instantly caught him and cradled him in her arms, her eyes desperately trying to find his as she stopped his face from going limp, shouting his name. The fire in her eyes sparked in her core and she screamed at the beastly man behind them, he stood there like a possessed man looking at her, his skin almost grey and festered with riddled veins over his scalp.

“Dracarys!” Daenerys tried to scream but it came out as a sob but her child heard it, all the same, slithering his colossal head over them and his encrusted neck clicked before erupting a torrent of fire that streamed out like an acidic beam, obliterating the creature to ash and soil.

Dany felt the heat on her face from the torrenting fire but it couldn’t dry the tears streaming out her eyes as she looked down at the lifeless eyes of her husband. His cold hand still protectively lay on her swollen navel after his final breaths. She didn’t know how long she held him nor did she feel Arya cradling Jon’s head from the other side. All she felt was the cold skin of his brow as she leaned her head against him, sobbing, pleading for him to wake up. But her King had fallen. The world was on fire and no could save her but him.

The sun basked her face after what felt like hours of screaming winds but her face was numb and cold. She lay curled up over his body, breathing in the crook of his neck and protecting him. Arya sat next to them, battered and bloodied aswel, curled up in a ball and watching helplessly in shock. The Dragon-Queen yelled and screamed when Jorah found them, pulling her away from Jon’s body so Samwell could treat it. When the plump man closed his eyes in defeat muttering he was gone, Dany tried to reach for him again ignoring the deep-rooted pain in her swollen stomach, her heart was riddled with too much pain to feel it. It was Jorah that held her, he picked her up and told them the Queen needed a Maester desperately, that she was in labour. She heard Arya swearing she would protect Jon’s body, she felt Ghost find them on the haunted battleground. The wolf prodded at his master’s body, pulling at his leathers to try and wake him. When he realised, he growled before howling and filling the air with memory before curling up next to him. Dany blanked out after that, Jorah carrying her to the encampment and the last thing on her lips was her love’s name.

The sun had nearly gone down again by the time the Queen’s screams stopped, the meadows and dew of the Trident filled with cries of the new Targaryen babe. Missandai collected the bloody sheets and bundled them up to place them in a hot tub of water. The Queen’s tent lay in the middle of the dothraki encampment, the numbers were sparse but the colossal snarling dragon coiled around the Queen’s tent, still made it the most protected place in the world.

Arya pulled on Ghost’ withers and tried to budge the big snowy mammoth.

“Ghost, give them some space!”

Dany looked up from the haven of blankets in her lap, a small smile touching her lips as she looked at the red ruby eyes that whined at her. The direwolf protested and instead jumped up onto the bed, sniffing the bundle in Dany’s arms before licking Dany’s cheek, the wolf curled up around them protectively. “It’s quite alright, Arya, he senses Jon’s baby. He wants to protect his master’s pup.”

Arya smiled sadly at the silver-haired woman. This wasn’t the fierce Dragon-Queen, this was a young woman who had lost everything but finally given new hope. “What will you name him?”

Dany wore a sheer white linen gown that exposed her collarbone and was covered in sweat and the remnants of birthing. She lay propped up by pillows and her silver-gold hair rippled in a silken way, loose from its braids and sprawled over her chest in ringlets. She looked down at the baby boy in her arms, tufts of unruly silver hair adorned atop his head and grey steel eyes blinking up at her, almost pitch like his father’s, his tiny chubby fingers holding a clutch of her hair as he babbled happily in her warmth.

Dany cried softly, wishing a certain north man was here to hold them. There was an ache in the back of her throat as she spoke, “Jon and I agreed. If it was a girl, he would name her. After his mother, I hoped. But, if it was a boy, I would name him.” Dany murmured, her eyes pooled with more tears of grief, instinctively she leaned down and softly pecked her baby’s pink pouty lips.

“He has the Targaryen look,” Arya prompted, “maybe after your and Jon’s valyrian ancestors?”

Dany shook her head, shuffling in their cocoon of silk, satin sheets and white lion furs. She lifted her belly slightly and unlaced her silk shift, her swollen creamy breasts spilled out like perfect pearls and she hummed when her baby latched onto her dusky pink nipple. Once settled, she replied, “I want to honour his Northern heritage as well, it’s only right.”

Arya smiled and looked up as if thinking, “how about a Targaryen first name and a northern second name.” Dany just nodded, her amethyst eyes not leaving her baby.

Arya tried her luck with a cheeky grin, “When Jon and I grew up, his favourite Targaryen was Daemon Targaryen, or was it Daeron? The Young Dragon anyway…”

“Daemon,” Dany murmured, picking the first. “I like it, it sounds strong. His middle name… will be Snowborn, named after his northern father. The love of my life,” she added softly, breaking out in fresh tears and Ghost leaned over and nipped out her tears, trying to comfort her.

“Daemon Snowborn Targaryen, son of Aegon-Jon and Daenerys Stormborn. The Targaryen Prince.” Arya declared proudly, “I will find your Hand, I expect he’d want to send letters to the realm,” But, Arya trailed off when the silver Queen barely listened, full of grief and love, perplexed and lost. She squeezed the Queen’s fingers and gained the attention of her tear-pooled eyes, “…you’re my sister now, your part of the pack, Daenerys, the north will protect you and your son. Your people will, no one will dare take Daemon from you nor you from him. But right now, the battle is over Daenerys, we have already defeated the evil bitch Cersei and now the Walkers are finished, now, Jon would want you to find peace, live and rule. Live for your baby boy…”

Dany heard the north girl leave, she looked down at little Daemon and slowly began to sing to soothe his sleep, her honeyed voice fragile and weak. A lullaby she’d long forgotten that an old knight once sang her when she was a little girl living in a house with a lemon tree outside her window. A willow song. “…your father loves you Daemon. Mama loves you.” Dany whispered, kissing his chubby cheeks when it came to an end as he snored softly. “I will always protect you, my love, I will always be by your side, my little King,” Dany promised, holding Daemon safe and tight against her breast.

_Seventeen years later._

“You sent that scroll to Kings Landing, did you not?” Daemon asked hurriedly over his shoulder. Robb was slumped against his back and nodded in fear, struggling in his bonds and the gag that was strung along his lips was loose from all his biting. Daemon twitched in anger when they watched an Iron-born raider behead another common folk. The blonde head of the serving girl falling with a thud in the distance. 

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter, we’re going to bleeding die at the hands of these fuckers.” Robb groaned angrily, pulling and tugging at his bonds.

Daemon reopened his eyes and smiled. He could feel his dragon coming, the tide had turned in the wind and the strength in his arms grew a little stronger. He blew an unruly curl of his silver-gold mane out his face, the hair tie that held back his hair had broken when the iron-born raiders found them and threw them in down in chains. The small castle of House Oakheart was smoking in ruin. Now, Ironborn raiders who had probably lost their ship to the sea was now scavenging the borders of the Reach. The heads of some of the household were already littered on spikes, the prisoners were scattered on the ground of the hay meadows just outside the main Keep. Daemon had heard of the pillages and left Storms End at the dead of night he couldn’t just hear about people suffering and do nothing. The heir of Storms End came with him and they travelled leagues upon leagues on their mounts, tracking them and after four days journey. They were all but captured on their attempt to free the prisoners rounded up at Old Oak. Now, the hundred iron soldiers were leaving for their next pillage and they were leaving no prisoners. Another head rolled off the execution tree stump, followed by cackling and screams of another being dragged up.

Robb squirmed in his bonds, his head falling back like rubber in dismay at the situation, he groaned against Daemon’s back. “We’re going to die at the hands of Ironborn. Great! At least my mother didn’t catch us coming here first, these scum would have had to unbury my bones first if they wanted to kill me.” Robb laughed weakly.

Daemon smirked aswel, the cut on his lip still trickling and the small gash over his eye tinged with pain. “Aye, Aunt Arya would have killed us first, Nymeria’s far worse than my mother’s albino monster.” Daemon murmured and his throat lodged a little in nostalgia over his snowy protector back in the capital. It had been over a year since he last swore Ghost because of his Wardship in Storms End.

Robb nodded weakly, a look of defeat plastered over his beady face and short flat hair. “I dread to think of what your mother would have done. She’s not called the Dragon-Queen for nothing.” Robb shuddered.

Daemon let a small grin tease his lips, “I thought Baratheon’s had more stout?”

Robb grinned and refuted, “I thought Targaryen’s had Dragons? I would kill for a fire breathing beast right now.” Robb moaned as he grimaced when another slice of the axe silenced someone’s screamed, the line was getting shorter and shorter to the executioner's block. “…I can feel Andrus not far from here, no more than fifty leagues. And something bigger, far bigger.” Daemon murmured, reopening his steel-grey eyes and focusing on the situation in hand and his conclusion was simple, “we need more time.”

“Daemon!” Robb twisted his neck around to see what he was doing, “Daemon, stop. What are you doing?” Robb whispered in a seething tone, “you’re the fucking Crown-Prince… Daemon. Daemon.”

Daemon had already stood up and took a brisk walk towards the encirclement of raiders that were clad in pitch steel and black flowing garbs like tentacles of vermin. They all raised their swords and axes at the sight of the silver-haired prisoner approaching out of line, the strung hood over his head had come down. The Prince walked with his unruly silver-gold hair fluttering and rippling in the wind, his defined pale jaw clenched and his broad shoulders under his blood-red loose tunic, flexed back by the bonds holding his hands behind his back.

“Let that girl go!” Daemon shouted, stopping the large bald iron-man taking advantage of a whimpering maid by the scuff of her neck, her clothes were shredded and her exposed fleshy teats, that were slightly cut, were drooping out in the tatters.

The leader of the clan dropped the sobbing girl and raised his jaw at the Prince, his eyes gleaming. He walked towards Daemon with his long-axe trailing the dry sun-burnt grass of the field floor. “Well, well, well… lucky what we have here boys, I would recognise that hair out of any bitch in a brothel. It’s the Dragon-Queen’s, little toad!” Ragnor pouted, his eyes trained on his prisoner, “…the Prince.”

Daemon raised his jaw, the muck and dirt on his face and the state of his faded expensive attire doing nothing to hide the royal blood he carried inside him. “I am Daemon, son of Aegon the Dragonwolf, of House Targaryen. The King of winter. My mother is Daenerys Stormborn, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and the Breaker of Chains. Let these people go and I will make sure every one of you is handsomely compensated by the Crown. Do this now, or die screaming.” Daemon growled, his husky voice laced with the power of his Valyrian forebearers.

There was a dead silence. Ragnor approached the young prince, his footsteps crunching the grass and his black teeth smiling a malignant hunger. He came face to face with Daemon and before anyone knew, he spat on Daemons face and slapped him with an iron punch, making the Greyiron soldiers cackle while the prince coughed out blood and fell to his knees. The dragon was in chains after all.

“You Targaryen cunts think you own us all and you cunts also have a knack for dying on that bleeding Trident, on fucking meadows and dew!” Ragnor spat with a look of glee, his bearded mouth twisted into a malignant smile as he looked around before meeting Daemon’s gaze. He pointed his doubled-edged axe at him and lifted Daemon’s jaw with the cold razor steel, “You going to die on this fucking meadow, dragon-spawn!”

“I was born in the last winter storm and I will dine in hell before my time is done!” Daemon growled back, he found his feet and stood back up to meet Ragnor’s gaze, Daemon flexed his broad shoulders despite the bonds that tied his wrists behind his back.

“All you will dine on pretty prince, is my big fat cock! Just like your Dragon whore of a mother that demands all these taxes, and, and shit from us! I am the King of the Iron-Islands, I answer to no one!” Ragnor blinked out, trying to string a full sentence together, wringing his axe above his head to spur on the iron-born men that laughed with him.

Daemon ignored Robb’s pleads for him to sit down and stay quiet, he stood tall. “If you really think that, you’re as stupid as you look and look even stupider than you speak.”

Ragnor blinked in confusion at the long sentence but Daemon hadn’t finished, “No more people have to die, only you or me. Let’s end this the old way, you against me. What say you?”

“I could gut you know, you bastard! Why should I put a sword in your hand, I’ve heard stories about you. They say you’re as good as your bastard father was, maybe you are, maybe not. But…”

Daemon cut him off, stepping forward and getting into his face, “will your men want to fight for you now they’ve heard you won’t fight for them?” Daemon grinned, trying to piss him off and it worked when the Iron born raider twitched in anger, turning around and lifting his steel plates off his shoulder, flexing the iron shaven muscles along his arms as he plucked his other great-axe out the ground, wielding two. “Cut his bonds and chuck the pretty-haired prince a sword!”

Daemon the rubbed the soreness off his wrists, glancing up at the stocky raider that gleamed at him with black teeth, wielding two heavy duty, pitch axes that were chiselled with razor double-edges, sweeping them around as he circled him.

Daemon didn’t pick up the brittle short-sword flung at his feet; he knew the wrinkled steel wouldn’t last two blows against cold rod steel. He remained calm, standing his ground in the middle, “You should know, I said the old way. My northern ancestor, Rodrik Stark, wrestled an ironborn King for the occupancy of Bear Island. Why don’t we pay hommage to our ancestors? You against me, no weapons, for Old Oak.”

Ragnor roared with anger and dropped both axes on the sun-burnt yellow grass, charging forward and Daemon rolled out the way, springing up before being lifted off his feet by the charging bull who changed directions at the last second. The raider was using his weight advantage, so he must use his speed. He clung onto the stocky pile of shit, trying not to show pain when his back suddenly hit the ground. He raised his forearms and blocked an onslaught of brute punches that tried to reach his face, pushing his grizzly face away by the cloves of his eyes.

He heard Robb shout something in the distance but he couldn’t hear, his eyes dilated when an iron fist found its way into the cracks of his robs making him gasp for breath. He grappled the troll of a man with his legs and distributed his weight to throw him to the side, stumbling up to get some distance. His lip bled harder and his lungs heaved for breath.

“Come on, pretty prince, mama’s not here to save you now!” He taunted and he flung a hammered overhand punch and Daemon rolled underneath, pivoting into a counter punch onto his kidney, breaking his wind before twisting over and cracking an iron fist into his jaw. The grizzly fool stumbled but grinned and spat out a mouthful of teeth.

“You fight like a bitch, with your pretty-hair and smart mouth! I wager now your famous father is dead, you wish to fuck you mother being a dirty Targaryen an all.” Ragnor taunted, “I don’t blame you, she’s so soft and fuckable, but, if your too much of a craven, send her my way, I’ll show her what a real man could do!”

The Iron born cackled around him and Daemon snarled in acidic anger, he ran towards him and jumped, cracking a pivoted blow on man’s jaw, who took it in stride and grappled onto him. It went on and on, going toe to toe, punches after punches and they eventually fell to the ground again, trying to choke each other out, ripping at one another’s throats. But, it was when Daemon scrambled up and gave a splattering kick to the raider already broken jaw, did the man slump in defeat. He thought he won until Ragnor came up behind him, wielding an axe. The first swing itself nearly tore his head off if it wasn’t for Robb’s warning shout.

Daemon weaved and his thumping heart became the only sound in his ears, he ducked and flung himself out the way, searching for a weapon. He fell over a rock and sprawled on his back, the iron born gutter came up above him and brought his axe down hard.

Daemon’s hand at the last second found an oaken branch, it was thick and barely covered his arm but it had a nook which he could hold it like a shield. The axe embedded in the oaken shield and Daemon held it with both hands when another harder blow threatened to take his life. But, before the third blow could come he knocked the pointed shard of the oaken bark into Ragnor’s knee, tearing into it as he howled in pain. It gave him enough time to scramble up, blood dripping like fury off his jaw and he roared with power, bringing the oaken shard down hard into Ragnor’s scalp as the man fell to his knees, before Daemons feet.

The other iron-born looked at him with shock but they held their swords tighter and some pointed bows at him, dishonourable to a fault. But, it was the thunderous roar that quaked the skies and purged the birds to flock away that caused them to gulp in fear. A colossal shadow breached the glare of the sun and blocked out the sunlight, coming straight for them and Daemon slumped down in exhaustion, relief in his bones.

Drogon circled the sun-burnt field a couple of time before landing his rapturous talons into the earth. His leather hide was pitch and riddled with scarlet veins and his colossal neck was encrusted with razor talons and spikes, his gargantuan wings slithered over the field and everyone covered at the sight of his roar. The dark flame inside his canyon of a throat raining fear into their souls, his teeth were like curved black and yellow broad swords, rotting bones and ash lingering in-between the gaps and his neck lowered, allowing a speck of beautiful silver-gold hair to be seen fluttering on top.

Daemon watched with awe at how big Drogon looked in the pale light and he nearly didn’t notice his own dragon lazily spiralling towards him, landing by his side and snarled protectively around him, flaring out his wings, screeching at anyone that dared to hurt his master. Andrus was no bigger than a horse but no less fierce than Drogon. He was a beautiful creature, silver-grey glimmering scales that gleamed like stained jewels with great azure-blue wings, darker cerulean veins and spines could be seen riddled on the leather membranes in the pale light. His horns on its wide head were black as pitch and like a crown of malignance like his clicking tail that finished with a pointed shard, an obsidian scorpion bolt one might argue. His flames were orange still but mother had told him, in time, they would reflect his colourings, azure fire. Daemon shushed his loyal beast, its screeches turning into clicks and drills under his touch.

Daenerys moved her eyes away from the cerulean-blue dragon and noticed the raiders were already on their knees from atop her own colossal mount, prisoners littered around them and the castle of Old Oak was smoking in ruin. In the middle of the sun-burnt field, outside the main gate to the castle, were the raiders and in the middle was a dead corpse with an oaken shard festering in his skull. But, besides the body, stood a man with unruly silver-gold hair behind his ears, blood and muck caked the roots of his hair and the crooks of his skin. He stood taller than she last saw him and she swallowed hard in shock of how much her boy had grown, he had another growth spurt and now the stare he gave her was the same plummeting eyes of his father. But, this was no time for happy reunions; her baby boy was in danger.

Drogon lowered his wings gently, snarling at anyone that dared to approach while she stepped onto the crisp ground.

“I am Daenerys Stormborn, breaker of chains and mother of dragons. Release my son or watch the sky fall down upon you.” She fiercely growled to them all and Drogon’s hair-splitting roar accompanied her rage, _Fire and Blood_, but Daenerys was surprised when Daemon began walking towards her. No one tried to stop him.

Daemon approached with the oaken shield on his arm, Andrus flapping back into the air and circling over them like a giant vulture. His clothes were ripped and in tatters over the hard panels of his lean body. He couldn’t stop the upward turn of the corners of his lips when he came before her, his mother was a sight for sore eyes. But, the beautiful purple irises glaring back at him didn’t share his humour they told him he was in big trouble.

His mother was nearing her forties but she was the mistress of time it seemed. Her porcelain face was fair-skinned with nary a blemish, soft and angelic as ever. Her silver-gold hair glimmered in the warm sun and fell way past the curve of her bottom in thick ice gold ringlets. The gold silken tresses lay rippled over her shoulders and chest, not braided, she had come in a hurry. She wore a flowing sleeveless gown, made up of different shades of black and the blackened-lilac velvet fabric over the shoulders was encrusted with dragon snitches. The dress clung to her petite body and stretched tight around her full bosom and hugged her smooth shoulders, teasing the sight of her defined collarbone. And he couldn’t help but notice how it teased her soft skin and wide hips. She wore matching slipper-heels and the small crystal-crown set in her silken hair, was adorned with red-cut rubies like the conquerors, the amethysts not as bewitching as her eyes.

Daemon knelt before her, the oaken-bark sharp clasped on his forearm dripping blood and his eyes glanced up to meet her eyes, “my Queen.”

Dany looked up when a chorus echoed the grounds, everyone had copied her son, kneeling in submission. She turned back to Daemon, she was proud he handled himself well and was safe but her anger was still evident. She wanted to slap that smirk off his young face, she lowered her voice so only he could hear. “Daemon Targaryen, didn’t I tell you not to come to Old Oak? Didn’t I tell you that I would send the unsullied to settle the issue of the Iron-Born raiders? Didn’t I warn you what would happen if you disobeyed me?” Dany seethed.

Daemon stood up and visibly gulped with his head down despite being taller than her now. “I’m sorry mother, but, I couldn’t just sit back and watch innocent people get killed. What kind of a future King would I be if I didn’t fight for your people?”

Dany clenched her small soft hands, “A smart one. Daemon, your father and I fought the wars so you didn’t have to! He died protecting you and I. This is a poor way to honour his sacrifice.” Her voice rising a little, trying to be discrete despite the rage coursing through her veins.

Daemon held the same fiery look like his mother but knew better than to argue back with her, he held his tongue and sighed, looking away. And Daenerys picked up on it since it was the same brooding look of a certain north man. She stepped closer, “You’re just like your father, you know.”

He slowly grinned and met her gaze, “I missed you mother.”

“I missed you too.”

Daenerys giggled when he strode up to her in three long steps and they hugged tightly, and she sighed in her son’s hold. They both stepped apart when Drogon snarled, a grizzly old Lord who had been the main prisoner came forward. He knelt in his ragged perfumed clothes, “I am Olyvar Oakheart, Lord of this castle. I wish to thank you for coming, my Queen. We are in the debt of House Targaryen in perpetuity it seems. If it was not for the courage of your son, Prince Daemon, we would all be dead by now and my family would have been thrown off the highest tower. I would name him Oakensheild, the Targaryen that wrestled an Ironborn for Old Oak for the lives of others.

Daenerys gave a polite smile to the Lord and wanted to swat Daemon’s arm for the cocky look on his face as he brandished the silly oaken shard by his side.

***

“Daemon Oakensheild, it has a nice ring to it I suppose.”

Daenerys pinched his forearm in scolding, earning a look of guilt from his face. The night had fallen and it was nearly the hour of the Wolf. The castle had been cleaned and neighbouring Houses by order of the Queen had sent wagons of food and bushels of grain from the recent harvests in the Reach. To simply feed the occupancy of Castle Oakheart until the burnt fields had been ploughed and harvested again, the rest of the supplies and timber needed to restore the castle would arrive in the coming week from Dragonstone also by decree of the Queen. She had decided they would spend the night in the castle due to her son’s wounds, he was in no state to ride Drogon with her since Andrus was still too small for riding, the summer air was far too cold at night. She was given the Lord’s chamber and Daemon the chamber next to hers. The most honourable Hedge knights of the Reach had rode to the castle to guard the halls since the Queen was visiting. They were both in Daemon’s allocated room since she wouldn’t trust any serving girl to tend to her baby boy. She would clean his wounds herself.

“…Your name is Daemon Targaryen, don’t get used to this Oakensheild nonsense,” Dany corrected, sitting on the edge of the bed while she used a wet sponge to clean the dry blood off his bare chest. She was angry that he got hurt, the nasty dark bruise over his ribs caught her attention every time he breathed along with the nice way his abdominals tightened under every breath. He lay sat up by the bed-rest after being ordered to not move, his mother insisted she clean his cuts and apply the salve. He twitched when she came to the small cut over his left eye, holding his head in place as she worked with her soft deftly fingers.

“…stop moving.” She pestered and he stilled after a mumble of not needing her help. She gave him another glare and the room went silent again as she tended him.

“…you’re the one with a thousand titles,” Daemon grinned with a crooked smile, squirming a little when she threaded a needle and started sewing the cut shut. He would have a scar like his fathers she concluded and she swallowed the internal thought. She pursed her lips at his bold statement, of her many titles, concentrating on the thread and needle. 

“You’ve grown a beard.” Dany murmured absently changing the subject, feeling the hard silver stumble that grazed his square jaw as she tilted his face to inspect her stitching. He was becoming a man.

“You don’t approve?” Daemon asked.

Dany met his eyes and slowly shook her head, “I approve. It’s just, your no longer the little boy I sent off to Ward for Lord Baratheon and your Aunt Arya in the Stormlands. You’re a man now. You’re probably growing hair everywhere.” Dany teased with pursed lips. She smiled at the redness of his cheeks and the roll of his eyes, then she tutted him for his movement, she continued sewing his cut. 

Dany was wearing a thin silken gown, black and shiny and meant for sleeping. Her silver-gold hair was free and fanned down her back, it trailed underneath her sitting bottom and ended near her tiny knees. He knew why his father had fallen in love with this foreign conqueror. She had a smile that consumed her face and crinkled the corners of her eyes, lighting up her whole angelic face. Her lips were full and plump and looked wet in the dim light and she had enticing amethysts orbs under her eyelashes. He blinked when he heard her groan, “…I dread to think how many more marriage betrothals will be waiting in the Capital, now this Oakensheild nonsense has gotten out. I swear, if Tyrion even suggests you’re ready for a dutiful wife and marriage after this mayhem, I will have him join the Unsullied and all their traditions.” Dany laughed to herself, concentrating on the last bit over his eye.

Daemon was tired of his mother’s protectiveness, “Mother. I am no longer a prude you need to stop treating me like some delicate boy that might break. I’ve lived in Storms End for over a year now, I’m mature enough to know these things and I’ve had plenty of experience with wom…”

His mother threw him the dirtiest glare he had ever received, “I swear Daemon. I didn’t raise you too…if you’ve been gallivanting around Storms End with, with… I will…”

“Relax,” Daemon grinned, “I would never be a man like Lord Tyrion and his brothel habits. Aunt Arya told me about my father, she told me he used to hate himself for being the bastard of Winterfell. That he swore he would never father a child because of his tainted blood. Little did he know, he was the rightful King of the seven kingdoms and his beautiful bride was heading to Westeros, his aunt Daenerys…” Daemon teased his mother.

Dany pursed her lips, putting her hands down for a second from the stitching, “don’t change the subject, my son, no women until I find you a suitable bride myself.” Dany implored, she wouldn’t let a swooning girl sink her claws into her baby. She became a little angry and took it out on him when she tilted is head forcefully to continue her stitching over his eye.

“Aunt Arya pretty much beats Robb and I up with her words, she says only when a woman finally captures our heart are we only then allowed to ask for their hand in marriage.”

Dany smirked, “since when had Arya Stark of Winterfell become so proper?”

“…why didn’t you send me there, to Winterfell I mean? My father was raised in the North, my grandmother’s family live there? Why not make me Ward of Winterfell?” Daemon asked, after all his time in Storms End, he was always curious as to why.

Dany raised her eyebrows as she concentrated on applying the salve over the cut, “Simple. I don’t trust Sansa Stark. Nor her scheming brother that calls himself the three-eyed raven. The moment after the Great Battle, when the others were defeated and you were born. Your father and I fought so the rest of the realm need not to, we sacrificed everything, our armies, dragons, food sources and himself. While I stood on the battle-field heavily pregnant, doing what I could, Sansa Stark sat cowering in Winterfell, playing with the Northern lords and when she heard we defeated the Wight Walkers at the cost of Jon’s life and thousands more. She didn’t offer aid or even remorse. She just demanded the North stay independent from the other Kingdoms. I nearly razed the North when she cut off trade routes and turned her back on us. There’s more to the story but I won’t get into that, basically, I reminded her of the meaning of Fire and Blood and she fell in line like the rest. Why would I want my only son to learn from a woman scheming and thirsty for power? People are only born with true power and she couldn’t accept she truly had none.”

“We are born with power,” Daemon murmured, noticing the sweet curve of her neck.

Dany laid a hand on his chest, her eyes gleaming, “we are born with far more, my son, you will learn when your time comes. When I find you a suitable wife and you become a great King. I expect when you and Andrus are ready to take the Iron-Throne, I will go back to Dragonstone and finally live a quieter life.” Dany said softly, a small smile touching her lips and Daemon slowly nodded, his eyes lingering on his words before he looked down, a look of shame almost. She caught it and lifted his chin, “what is it Daemon?”

“It’s nothing mother,” Daemon responded, pushing her hand away. His eyes looked hurt.

“Tell me,” Dany commanded, looking at him like Drogon looked at prey.

“I… I want something, something I’ve dreamed off since I had to leave you in Kings Landing. Something I need the day I become King.”

Dany offered a concerned look, she picked up his hand and laid a kiss along with strong fingers, “whatever you want, it’s yours.” Dany comforted and she looked up to see the look of his father in his eyes. “Tell me Daemon, and I will…”

He rushed forward and kissed her square on the lips, tender but possessive as he pressed his lips further on hers. She was too shocked to realise what he did as she gasped apart and she watched his dark eyes reopen. He leaned back only a mere inch, waiting for her to tell him it was wrong but his taste and hot breath was lingering on her lips for her brain to even consider what happened. She wanted to slap him, to shout at him but then, she saw the same grey steel glint of Jon Snow looking back at her, the love in his dark plummeting eyes yearned for her and it ignited a spark in her womb. Her nipples stiffened under the silk of her gown, her teats grew heavy in her breathing.

“Was that alright?” The crack in his voice tingled her maternal instincts and the empathy she felt soon burned away when she couldn’t ignore the sensations between her burning loins, the taste of the only other Targaryen in the world on her mouth. Her son.

Dany bit her lower lip, staring at his wet mouth before hurriedly meeting his concerned eyes, she shook her head. “No... Daemon, I’m your mother. We… we can’t, we won’t speak of this again. Go to bed.” Dany swallowed out quickly, standing up from the edge of the bed and making to go but he grasped her small porcelain hand, tugging her back. She turned and looked down to see the same yearning look in his eyes, the same plummeting eyes of Jon Snow that once silently pleaded for her not to leave his bedside all those years ago.

She twisted her hand free and stormed towards the door and reached for the latch-handle. But before she could, she felt Daemon’s hands behind her, smoothing onto her wide hips in awe and captivation, somewhere she never would have dreamed his hands would be. And she gasped when his groin and something long and thick within his breeches pressed between the warmth of her plump cheeks. Her words swallowed as his hands found her waist, turned her around like a doll and pushed, her feet stumbling, her back- that damn silken gown- hitting the hard grain of the door. She could feel her baby boy’s breathing against her forehead and the first time in her life, the mounds of her breasts pressed against the hard pale panels of his sculptured chest. Only the thin sheen of her gown separated their flesh.

“…Daemon, stop.”

Even-though she felt trapped, she loved it. She loved it because she knew her baby boy was her own blood, no longer just her boy she raised but now a herculean god she made with her pussy.

Her honeyed voice went weak as she looked up into his dark eyes, “Daemon, unhand me… I’m your mother.” Dany pleaded weakly.

His pink pouty lips grazed her own like a warm feather, “that’s the problem with our family, mother, men run from fire. We seek to dominate it and take what we please, that’s what you taught me, to take what I please.” Daemon purred, holding her hips tighter and he leaned down to rest his brow against hers and Dany’s palms subconsciously settled on his muscled chest over his nipples, not knowing whether she wanted to push him away or graze her sharp-finger nails along his beautiful skin. “I’m your mother,” Dany said a little more firmly, deciding to push away.

“Nuh-uh,” Daemon protested with his husky throat, not budging an inch with her warm body still pressed against him and the door. “We are the last two Targaryen’s. Father is dead. Everyone is gone. He left me to take care of you. It’s just us, you’re more than my just mother and you know it. You always have been. You’re my Queen, my protector and maybe, my bride.”

Daenerys eyes widened when her son said that word and slapped him hard on the face, causing him to stumble back.

The dark steel glint in his eyes was like cold water running down her spine, he touched his jaw before looking at her like a predator. What had come over him? “Forgive me, mother, I forgot myself.” He murmured.

“Yes you did Daemon,” Dany growled, her hands over her face in shame as she tried to control herself as well. What would the realm think? What would happen if they crossed that boundary? She couldn’t do that. This was her baby boy that she fed porridge while making animal noises with the spoon. This was her and Jon’s baby, what would he think? Would he forgive her that for that sinful kiss? She swore she saw the reflection of Jon’s eyes in Daemon’s, there was carnal need and anger inside them and she became wary of the steel glint.

His anger grew and he turned away, “would you rather me be a man who wasn’t honest with himself?” He roared, knocking over a glass china bowl from the table in frustration, the shattering sound followed the awkward silence. Her son, this herculean god with his silver-gold mane and dark pitch eyes had grown to be a real Targaryen and she failed to see it, until now. He was hers and he was giving himself to her.

“I would rather you be a man that did exactly as he pleased,” she whispered. Daemon grew confused and turned back around to the click of the door locking, his dark eyes suddenly met the beautiful amethysts of his mother’s eyes and how her deftly soft fingers untied the belt of her silken gown. It pooled around her feet and he was enamoured with the sight of her nude body. Her nipples stiffened when the soles of his eyes dilated with malignant hunger.

Her voice was weak with desire, “I want you too baby.”


End file.
